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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795964">i never really understood (the way you laid your eyes on me)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfinishedlines/pseuds/unfinishedlines'>unfinishedlines</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gotham (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ed is a beanpole, Ed is so in love and he doesn't even know it, Has some strong language, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mostly cause I wrote this before season 5 came out, No Man's Land, Old Married Couple Bickering, Oswald and Ed's sexual tension presents itself as anger, Oswald and his boy toys, Oswald as a kingpin, Oswald revived Ed, POV Edward Nygma, Post-Season/Series 04, Pre-Slash, canon compliant up to season 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 11:00:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfinishedlines/pseuds/unfinishedlines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Resurrection doesn’t sit well with you, I see.”<br/>Edward scoffed. “Can’t say the same about you and power.”<br/>Oswald, ever the peacock more than a penguin, took the praise. “I know, right?” After preening his hair, slicked back with eighty different hair products, he shook his head. “But I could be doing better, which is why you’re here. How are you, Ed?”<br/>Even after all this time and all he’d done, he spoke to him as if they still were old friends. “As you said, I could be doing better. The world has gone to hell and so have I.”</i>
</p>
<p>What begins as a meeting between Oswald and Edward to discuss a business opportunity turns into a revisiting of their shared histories and the most revealing conversation of their lives.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i never really understood (the way you laid your eyes on me)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Gotham ended a year ago, and—truth be told—I haven't thought about it in years. Recently, though, I found a bunch of old fanfics I wrote for the show and I was surprised by their quality. This one in particular stood out.</p>
<p>I wrote it in 2018, before the season 5 premiere, so I was filling in the blanks for some details regarding the situation in No Man's Land. Any inconsistencies with canon are due to poetic license. </p>
<p>The title is from Sorry by Halsey</p>
<p>Please read, kudo, comment, and enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Edward was not surprised when he received the purple envelope, embossed with a penguin watermark, as he passed a corner. He knew who had sent it before his thumb landed on the beak of the penguin design. Only he would know where to find him, even if Edward had been ambling the desolate, grimy, grey streets aimlessly for weeks, and only he would bother with a letter in the first place. It was the workings of guilt. He wouldn’t dare meet his gaze after all he’d done to him. Edward had predicted the arrival of the letter weeks ago. What he hadn’t exactly guessed was the message itself.</p>
<p>In his succinct, Hemingway-esque prose, Oswald scheduled a meeting with him later that day in City Hall, the headquarters of his fraction of the fractured Gotham. The only explanation he gave was that he wanted to discuss a “business opportunity.” What it could be, Edward didn’t know. He couldn’t figure out his intentions just from his words. He supposed that’s why brevity was his signature in writing—like in person, he never revealed more than he had to, as to not give away anything that could be manipulated. Being so in the dark about the situation, he considered standing him up. City Hall was in the heart of his empire; it would be miles before he could reach somewhere Oswald couldn’t hurt him. The odds were stacked against him. The problem was that Edward was curious as to what Oswald meant, and he was never one to leave a riddle unanswered.</p>
<p>Oswald was his life’s most elusive riddle. This was a chance fate was granting him to solve it, and he wasn't going to pass up on it for something as petty as danger.</p>
<p>So Edward stood at the foot of City Hall, with a handgun tucked into his belt that seemed tiny in comparison to the two rifles at the sides of the women guarding the main stairs. A penguin design was spray-painted onto their jackets. He cursed his curiosity under his breath.</p>
<p>He rubbed the watermark penguin beak absentmindedly—nervously, if he was being honest with himself, which obviously he wasn't—as he stepped forward. Though he was taller than both women, they packed a lot more muscle into a much smaller space than he did. They glared at him, tilting their faces just in the angle that made them look menacing.</p>
<p>“‘Ey, geezer, what's yer business here?” the blonde to the right said, pointedly reaching for her rifle. The cockney British accent added to her threatening aura rather than weaken it.</p>
<p>Edward silently extended the purple envelope as a response. The blonde refused to take it, despite Edward’s pointed jabs at her with the envelope; after a moment, she whistled with her fingers in her mouth. At the sound, a man, lean but tall, came out of the shadows. When he was standing in front of him, Edward realized the mystery man was taller than him. Dressed in the finest electric blue suit Gotham could create, accentuating his equally electric blue eyes, it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was in the top ranks of Oswald’s barracks. He nodded at both women, whose menacing demeanor dropped around him, and took the envelope without acknowledging Edward. After he examined it, he tucked the letter in the envelope and placed it inside his suit. Then, he turned to the woman to his left, who had a jet-black pixie cut, and made a few hand signals. When she nodded, he finally met Edward’s confused gaze. Though he had to admit that the man dressed in blue made a shocking and entrancing contrast to the desolate, grimy, grey Gotham streets, his eyes were drawn instead to the British blonde. In the angle she had placed herself in now, slightly less menacing than before, the yellow streetlight above revealed something shiny in her face. It took a moment for him to recognize it was a reflection from her glass eye.</p>
<p>She was a one-eyed woman. The other was probably deaf if he’d recognized the hand movements correctly as ASL. Edward, once again, was surprised. He hadn't taken Oswald to be an equal opportunity employer. With this new development, he cursed his curiosity a final time within his head, just for good measure.</p>
<p>These were too many surprises for his liking.</p>
<p>“All right, he’s clear. Follow me, beanpole,” the man in blue said with a Gothamite accent that brought an odd sense of familiarity with it as he turned on his heel and began climbing the stairs toward the door.</p>
<p>Edward scowled. “I’m not a beanpole,” he grumbled, the words barely escaping past his teeth. Even so, the man heard him.</p>
<p>“I don’t actually care. You’re here to see Penguin, and that’s what he calls you so—”</p>
<p>“Oswald talks about me?” Edward interjected, confused. To say he was surprised by that would technically be inaccurate. It<em> was </em>a possibility he’d considered, but he considered it slim. His voice, however, sounded more shocked than he meant it to.</p>
<p>The other man scoffed. “That’s Mr. Penguin to you.”<em> Mr. Penguin. </em>It had been ages since he’d heard someone call him that. In fact,<em> he </em>was the only person he remembered using the moniker, back in the days when Oswald was an icon rather than a man—untouchable and infallible. Back in the days when they were just beginning, butterflies freshly emerged from their cocoons. Back in the days when there wasn’t bitterness in their hearts. Back in the days when Edward hadn’t yet met this building and all the demons within Oswald’s mind.</p>
<p>Oh, those days. Edward didn’t know whether to look back on them with the fondness of nostalgia or the rage of regret.</p>
<p>The man entered City Hall but didn't hold the door open for the other trailing behind him, so it hit Edward in the shoulder, waking him from his thoughts. Edward opened it and entered. He quickly found the electric suit among the crowd heading deeper into the building, dilapidated and broken as the rest of the desolate, grimy, grey city. Catching up to him, he resumed following him.</p>
<p>The memories laying stagnant in the dust clogged up his lungs. Looking at the staircase he climbed so often what seemed forever ago inspired a choking sensation in him. He pulled at his collar, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt to try to make his windpipe feel a little wider—as wide as the corridor that the electric blue man was leading him through and the doors at the end that covered the room he could paint from memory if his fingers weren’t so clumsy and his pulse so fidgety. The ghosts of countless days he’d spent working here walked beside him in the currents of wind entering the building through what remained of a few window frames. All his laughter, his thoughts, his mistakes. All the things he’d worked so hard to forget.</p>
<p>How the mind was so quick in its cruelty. Edward realized then, passing his reflection in one of many broken shards on the floor, that he was a much different man than the one haunting these halls. Haunting<em> him </em>. So much had happened and so much had changed since those simpler days of his past were the life he knew.</p>
<p>Edward averted his eyes from the shattered image of himself on the floor and looked up to find the man had turned a corner. He picked up the pace and walked beside him. He had to tilt his head slightly to meet his gaze.</p>
<p>“So,” Edward began, aiming to make it sound casual, normal, although nothing about their situation was. “My name’s not beanpole. It’s—”</p>
<p>“Edward Nygma,” the man interjected, voice and expression flat. His eyes were cold with disinterest. “I told you, I know who you are.”</p>
<p>Edward quickly shook off the man's tone. “What’s your name?” he tried again.</p>
<p>The man gave him an amused look before he answered, as vague as Oswald’s letter had been, “people ‘round here call me Jay.”</p>
<p>They made another turn, one he’d anticipated. Of course, Oswald had taken ownership of the mayoral office room as soon as he got the chance. Edward remembered that he loved that place. He brought his coffee there every morning at nine o’clock and not a minute later, what seemed forever ago.</p>
<p>The silence was as thick as the lump of repressed memories in the back of Edward’s throat, so he tried to break it again. “Jay like the letter? Or like J-a-y? Or…?” He prompted with his hands for an answer. Jay chuckled, but it sounded humorless.</p>
<p>Jay pointed at his spotless suit jacket. “Short for Blue Jay. Like the bird.”</p>
<p>“Surely your name isn't Blue Jay,” he said with a tone more incredulous than might’ve been courteous. Edward had never been one for sensitivity, however, so he didn’t notice. “Right?” he asked after a moment had passed without getting confirmation.</p>
<p>“If it weren’t, you think I’d tell you, Nygma?”</p>
<p>Edward had never been one for sensitivity, but he could recognize a rhetorical question when it was spoken. He took it as a sign to cease the conversation. They walked wordlessly for what remained of the hallway until they came upon the mayoral office. Like the rest of the building, it looked worn. There were clear signs of forced entry on the chipped wooden doors. At the right of it stood a muscular man, wearing a navy suit as deep and dark as his skin. It was a beautiful fabric, glimmering in the faint light like a starlit, clear sky. There were no nights like those in Gotham these days. It was a welcomed sight for an astronomer like Edward. It reminded him of days long dissipated to dust when Oswald had been healing his wounds in his old apartment, and both insomniacs leaned by the windowsill and counted the stars; he taught the man who stood behind those doors the locations and myths of every constellation they found those summer nights.</p>
<p>“Hey, Raven,” Jay greeted the bald, midnight man guarding the door. The other’s face lit up with a small smile at the sound. Edward wanted to ask if the bird-based names were Oswald’s idea, as part of his “theme”, but doubted they’d answer.</p>
<p>Raven’s smile fell once his eyes, a rich brown, landed on Edward. “Jay, this Nygma?” he asked. Before Jay could answer for him, Edward nodded.</p>
<p>Raven stood a little shorter than the completely green-clad, disheveled man, but he was still about 6’0”. They were a tall, odd bunch wearing unusually bright suits. Edward felt this wasn’t a coincidence. Was this Oswald’s idea too?</p>
<p>Silently, the man dressed in navy blue opened the door beside him and permitted Jay and Edward access to Oswald’s office.</p>
<p>Inside was yet another surprise—the fourth. Edward was keeping track. He pushed his hair back and straightened his glasses, two nervous habits of his, as they stood beside the far wall.</p>
<p>Oswald sat at his desk in a seat that looked more like a throne, as finely dressed and stylish as he was within Edward’s most repressed—and secretly cherished—memories. He looked so unlike how he’d seen him a few months ago, scavenging desperately through the desolate, grimy, grey Gotham streets. Oh, how the tables had turned. The one who was desolate, grimy, and grey now was him. Standing beside Oswald was a boy, about eleven if Edward had to guess, with a mop of brown curls above his head, dressed in a light blue dress shirt and wool vest. They locked eyes before the boy looked down and started writing something on a pad around his neck, which seemed to draw all his attention. Edward felt like he knew him, but couldn’t pin down from where. And to top it all off, seated on top of the desk, giving his back to Edward but facing Oswald, was a man dressed in a flamboyant, nauseating shade between yellow and orange. He let out a hearty laugh right as they came in, leaning back into the desk and then much closer to the man at the throne than Edward felt he needed to.</p>
<p>“Oh, Ozzie, you’re too funny,” the man exclaimed.<em> Ozzie? </em></p>
<p>Oswald visibly recoiled at the nickname but said nothing. He was about to speak when the boy, who had stopped writing, tugged at Oswald’s sleeve. The man turned, and Edward visibly saw his expression turn kinder as soon as he was facing the kid. The boy showed him the pad. Oswald read it, his expression hardening again at the words. Placing a caring hand on his small shoulders, Oswald nodded. The boy resumed writing.</p>
<p>He refocused his attention at the man above his desk, a big smile painted on his face. “Where were we? Oh, yes. You doubt me, Lark?” As he said the name—how many bird names could he come up with?—Oswald placed a pale, defined hand on the other man’s yellow knee, barely touching but intimate nonetheless.</p>
<p>Edward turned around. He felt like he might vomit.</p>
<p>Lark giggled. “Oh, <em>never</em>, Ozzie,” he said. After a moment, Edward heard the heavy thump of something landing on the carpet. He supposed Lark had finally gotten off the desk. “It’s dinnertime. I’ve gotta go. Want me to bring you anything?”</p>
<p>Oswald clicked his tongue. Edward did not question how he recognized the sound. “Gotta watch the figure, you know,” Oswald added. Edward’s nausea increased. Jay tapped him on the shoulder so he unwillingly turned around. His throat, tight as ever, got impossibly tighter at the sight that awaited him.</p>
<p>The man dressed in yellow wore glasses—in fact, the same frames as the ones Edward was wearing now. He had a mop of brown hair cut close at the sides and piled up on the top, similar to the haircut he’d worn when Oswald had first entered this office. He was lean and tall. One could even say he looked like a beanpole. Even his face, with brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, and sculpted chin was nearly his own. Lark was a failed replica of Edward. He felt offended.</p>
<p>At the developing news, the boy raised his head. He flipped a page in his pad and quickly scribbled a question mark, showing it to Lark. The man laughed. “Yes, Martin, you can come along. I bet you’re starving,” he said, to the boy’s enthusiastic nodding. They walked out of the office, his doppelganger's mood undisturbed by the daggers Edward threw his way with his scowling gaze; he doubted he even noticed them. Once they had gone, Jay forced him to walk toward the throne, like a policeman dragging a convict to the noose. Oswald was organizing some papers on his desk and did not look up once Edward was standing in front of him, though he had a feeling that he was avoiding his gaze.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Jay, you can leave for dinnertime. Tell Raven he’s relieved as well.”</p>
<p>“But, sir, that would mean you’d be alone,” Jay said, his tone confused.</p>
<p>Oswald looked up then, right above Edward’s head. “I appreciate the concern, Jay, but I can handle it. Do as I told you.”</p>
<p>Jay nodded like a soldier. Now that he thought about it, maybe he had been before the city had fallen apart. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing, really. And we discussed this—call me Oswald.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir. Oswald... sir,” Jay said awkwardly. Clearly, he wasn’t very comfortable with the idea. Oswald chuckled. So did Jay, before he turned around and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.</p>
<p>Now they were alone, Edward didn’t know what to expect. He sat, waiting for Oswald to set off the cold war that hung thick as the dust in the air between them. </p>
<p>Sure enough, after a moment more of organizing files and placing them in various drawers of his desk, Oswald addressed him. “Resurrection doesn’t sit well with you, I see.”</p>
<p>Edward scoffed. “Can’t say the same about you and power.”</p>
<p>Oswald, ever the peacock more than a penguin, took the praise. “I know, right?” After preening his hair, slicked back with eighty different hair products, he shook his head. “But I could be doing better, which is why you’re here. How are you, Ed?”</p>
<p>Even after all this time and all he’d done, he spoke to him as if they still were old friends. “As you said, I could be doing better. The world has gone to hell and so have I.”</p>
<p>The gun laid heavy around his belt, pressing into his stomach. Edward hadn’t been<em> completely </em>honest with himself. He’d come because his curiosity had been too great to resist, of course, but what had convinced him to ignore the danger was the glorious opportunity the meeting provided to kill Oswald. When Gotham City had been sliced off from the world by the bombs detonated on its bridges, it had become free land for the claiming. Oswald had the greatest chunk—Downtown and the Narrows; second to him was Barbara Kean to the west, with the Diamond District where Oswald’s old nightclub had been turned into her headquarters. To the east was the periphery of the Gotham City Police Department, called the Green Zone, managed by Jim Gordon and whatever cops had remained in the city, bordered by both Firefly’s and Freeze’s small sections of the city. Whatever remained was No Man’s Land—a lawless, dangerous hub of criminals without loyalties such as him.</p>
<p>While all this had occurred, Edward had died. He’d been stabbed three times in the chest, and he had the scars to prove it. He didn’t know the circumstances behind his death—he couldn’t remember and when he’d awoken, Oswald refused to explain. All he knew was that Oswald had found him, choked on his own blood, and revived him one way or another. He came alive again to a Gotham in chaos and split into factions. Oswald had shown him the perimeter of No Man’s Land and told him to stay there. He also warned him to avoid both his and Barbara’s territories at all costs because they would kill him on sight—Barbara because she had a campaign against all men, Oswald because they had a feud that had gone on for years now.</p>
<p>Neither had surprised Edward.</p>
<p>Having been revived once all the territories had been drawn meant Edward had no realistic way of gaining a fraction of his own. There was no way to organize No Man’s Land. He’d thought about it for all those weeks he’d ambled about. And even if there was, he was still recovering from his resuscitation. He wouldn’t be able to pull it off.</p>
<p>But then Oswald’s letter had arrived and with it the opportunity to usurp him and take over his section. His management style had never been too watertight, so he supposed he could gather support among his men once the king was dead. And now that they were both alone, it all became so much easier. All he had to do was shoot him. This would all be over as quickly as his bullet could fly.</p>
<p>First, though, he was willing to listen to the deal. Just to see what Oswald had in mind. Just to get his questions answered.</p>
<p>“I don’t care for the small-talk, Oswald, and you know it,” he said, his hands itching to fire the gun. “What’s your deal?”</p>
<p>Oswald scoffed. “Seems your manners died with you,” he replied coldly. He straightened and placed his folded arms over the glass table surface. “Anyway, I don’t know if you remember my explanation of Gotham’s territories?”</p>
<p>“I remember.”</p>
<p>“Great. Then you know I handle both Downtown<em> and </em>the Narrows—basically half the city,” he said. It sounded like he was stalling.</p>
<p>Edward rolled his eyes. “Where is this going?”</p>
<p>Sighing, he built up his courage to continue. It was as if he was a high school boy steeling himself up to ask a girl out. “I’d heard that, before you died, you gained a lot of influence in the Narrows. And I know you like being in control of things like I do. So maybe—<em> maybe </em>— I could put you in charge again.” He quickly added, “under<em> my </em>name and<em> my </em>rules, obviously.”</p>
<p>“Wasn’t I murdered there?”</p>
<p>Oswald looked taken aback by the question. He nodded slowly. “What does that have to do with anything?” he asked as he nodded.</p>
<p>Edward rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe he had to explain this. Wasn’t it obvious? “If I was influential,” he said with air quotes around<em> influential </em>, “as you say, I was<em> clearly </em>killed as a political move. You’re just sending me off to get killed again.”</p>
<p>There was a hesitation in his voice when he replied, “no, you weren’t. It was... more personal than that.”</p>
<p>Leaning back against his chair, he raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Gee, I wonder who did it, Mr.<em> Don’t-Come-Into-My-Territory-Or-I’ll-Kill-You </em>,” he accused. He hadn’t considered it before, but it made sense. Oswald had wanted to kill him for years now. He had the oldest motive of anyone else in Gotham. And why be allusive about the details of his death if he hadn’t done the deed? This was practically a confession.</p>
<p>Oswald burst into laughter. “Says the one with a loaded gun in his belt,” he retorted when he’d recovered his breath. Edward looked down, and then back at him, realizing his surprise was more eminent in his features than he meant for it to be. “Oh, come on, Ed, you really think I didn’t notice? Your jacket is<em> unbuttoned </em>, for Christ’s sake!”</p>
<p>The scowl that had been painted on Edward’s face since he’d entered the office deepened. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were too busy fawning over that Lark of yours—who, by the way, is a dead ringer for me—right in front of the<em> kid </em>. Jesus, Oswald! Do you have no decency?”</p>
<p>Another chuckle escaped the man, except this one was humorless. “Lark is my<em> employee </em>, Ed. And it is through no fault of my own that he bears a<em> passing </em>resemblance to you,” he explained calmly, with a smile barely tugging at his lips. Edward, if his crossed arms were to be believed, didn’t buy it.</p>
<p>“Admit it, Oswald. You hired that guy to replace me.”</p>
<p>The pale man’s grey-blue eyes, thunderous like the thick clouds outside the window frames and characteristically cold, widened. He looked aggravated. Edward expected his usual screams that sounded like he was choking, but he whispered instead, “is he wearing green, Ed?”</p>
<p>It took a moment for him to answer. “Well, no, but—”</p>
<p>“I don’t like to gossip about my employees, but if you<em> must </em>know, this look is recent. Lark’s just trying to move up the ladder by<em> forcing </em>himself to look like you. But if he<em> were </em>you, he’d wear green,” he said in a quiet voice. Edward couldn’t argue against that kind of logic. It made sense. “Green’s<em> your </em>color, Ed. It’ll always be yours in my eyes.”</p>
<p>Oswald’s hand moved closer to Edward’s on the glass table and tried to get ahold of him. Alarmed by the rush of emotion that expanded in his chest at the sight, he rose and stood behind his chair as if it were a shield. “Don’t, Oswald,” he warned in a dangerously low tone. “Just because I’m weak from the resurrection doesn’t mean I’ll fall for your lovey-dovey bullshit.”</p>
<p>The other man, though visibly shaken, remained quiet. Edward suspected for a moment that he knew he had more to say, but he refused to admit that Oswald could be so empathetic or that he could be so predictable.</p>
<p>“You don’t<em> love </em>, Oswald. The closest to love you’ve ever come is being obsessed with the power you can exert on other people. Forcing those three men to dress in brightly-colored suits, robbing them of their identities and turning them into<em> birds </em>just like you. Forcing those guards outside to protect this building that represents the betrayal of Gotham’s leaders — including you — even though they can’t do it with their five senses. Forcing this city to wear your posters in its walls to mark your precious territory. Don’t you dare do that and then try to fool me with those sentimental one-liners and those light blue eyes and that stunt you pulled with Lark. Because I<em> know </em>you, Oswald. And it won’t work on me because<em> I don’t love you </em>. Never have, never will.”</p>
<p>Heaving, he waited for the other man’s response. Oswald simply deflated into his gold throne. He suddenly seemed a whole ten years older. “You claim to know me, but clearly you don't. All of that sounds more like you than it will<em> ever </em>sound like me. Unlike you, I believe love is a human experience, not a political statement.”</p>
<p>“Says the politician,” Edward said lamely, his voice softer now his passion had been doused by Oswald’s ice. He sat back down but averted his frigid gaze. It was desolate, grimy, and grey more than blue. He hated seeing Oswald so defeated. It didn’t feel right. But he was too riled up to simply let the fight recede like a wave into the silence. After a moment, he rekindled the flames. “So, you<em> really </em>think you loved me?”</p>
<p>Oswald lifted his head from his sudden stupor, amused. His gaze wondered whether it was an honestly stupid question or bait. He decided on the former when he answered, flatly, “yes, really. I told you like five times back in the day.”</p>
<p>Edward shook his head. Oswald tilted his and pursed his lips. Not what he had expected, apparently. “No, you didn’t.<em> No, you didn’t </em>. You were just manipulating me like you manipulate everyone around you,” he said, knowing his words would fall like poison.</p>
<p>Sure enough, the accusation revitalized Oswald. “I got you released from Arkham!” he exclaimed indignantly.</p>
<p>Edward remembered that day. He’d gotten the news that he was certified sane out of the blue before getting shoved into Oswald’s limousine. He’d put two and two together and left it at that back then, but getting verbal confirmation now was still surprising.</p>
<p>“So I could run your mayoral campaign,” he shot back. It was what he had him do as soon as the sun rose the next day, after all. He wasn’t wrong. There was no way Oswald could spin that to his favor. Edward didn’t think he could distort<em> facts. </em>

</p>
<p>Oswald, however, had never let himself be defined by what others—much less what Edward Nygma—thought he could do. In a calmer voice, he explained, “because I thought it would make you happy to be free.”</p>
<p>The man dressed fully in green faltered. “It—it<em> did </em>make me happy.”</p>
<p><em> Happy. </em>What were they, ten-year-olds? </p>
<p>It<em> was </em>a fitting word, though, however simple it was. The only other image that came to mind that was discernible from all of that year he’d spent working under Oswald’s mayorship was<em> her </em>. “You know what else made me happy? Isabella, whom you<em> killed </em>!”</p>
<p>The man sitting in the throne audibly groaned. He rolled his eyes and Edward feared, for a moment, that he had been expecting that response. “Because I was<em> jealous </em>of her!” he cried out. “I already did all my atonement for<em> that one </em>, thank you very much.”</p>
<p>Edward shook his head, impassioned by his need to outsmart the man sitting across a table from him. He’d always had such a silver tongue, but it wouldn’t cut it tonight. “<em> No </em>, you knew I’d quit being Chief of Staff to be with her and you didn’t want to lose your glorified secretary. That’s why you did it!” Quickly, he added, “and you can<em> never </em>make up for the years you took away from us!”</p>
<p>“Wait, you were planning to<em> quit </em>?” Oswald asked. Either he hadn’t heard the last part, or he’d elected to ignore it.</p>
<p>Edward banged the glass table in a small moment of frustration. “Don’t change the subject!” Quickly thinking back on what he could remember from the years before he’d died, he found another example. It filled him with bitterness just to think about it. “You froze me! And put me on display in your nightclub! How’s<em> that </em>an act of love?”</p>
<p>It was Oswald’s turn to falter. For a moment, the man dressed in green allowed himself to believe he’d won. But then, the finely-dressed would-be king gave an answer. He hesitated after every other word, speaking as if he were confessing something. “It sounds wrong, but I—I wanted to keep you.” His voice was nothing more than a whisper. “There was no way to do so without you trying to hurt me, though. You made that clear when you tried to kill me. If I wanted to be safe, I had to get rid of you, but I couldn’t bring myself to kill you. Freezing you was second-best. Freezing you was<em> bearable </em>.” </p>
<p>Edward felt himself soften, so he crossed his arms to remind himself of his purpose. “That doesn’t explain your<em> very humiliating </em>public display, making me your<em> centerpiece </em>.” He spat the phrase out, speaking with a resentment so unlike the other’s gentle tone—the abuser and the abused, clearly identified by their voices. “You were using me as an example to get people to be afraid of you.”</p>
<p>“I told the press that I froze you so I could protect you from a terminal disease. You were<em> never </em>a fear-mongering device,” Oswald said in a tone that implied he thought that vindicated his actions. It didn’t, but it did weaken Edward’s argument. The man added with a scoff, “ I am offended that you think I need<em> you </em>to do that. I can strike plenty of terror on my own. Give me recognition where it’s due.”</p>
<p>Then he paused. Edward entertained the thought that he was literally waiting for some recognition, but refrained. He might’ve meant it rhetorically. Oh. Apparently he couldn’t recognize sarcasm as easily as he thought he could. Was that a side-effect of dying or had he always struggled like this?</p>
<p>Oswald continued the fight with, “and how about when I chose saving you over killing Sofia Falcone, huh? How did I manipulate you then?”</p>
<p>It took a moment for Edward to find a counter-argument, another motive, but he did. Of course, he did. His intelligence was his power. “Clearly, you, uh, wanted me to be indebted to you! Obviously! So if you ever needed someone to do your dirty work in the Narrows or something, I’d be forced by honor to do it.” He pointed at the desk, at the scene, at their situation. “Exhibit A.”</p>
<p>“Wha -<em> no </em>!” the man in the throne retorted nearly immediately. “I <em> sacrificed </em> my revenge for you! You said<em> yourself </em>that love was a sacrifice. I put my wants aside in order to meet your needs. As per<em> your </em>definition, that is love.” It was as passionate as Edward had seen Oswald since the day they were remembering when he was desolate and grimy and grey, swearing vengeance on Sofia Falcone—vengeance he never got. Leaning back against the seat, he added quietly, “And I—I couldn’t bear the thought of you dying.”</p>
<p>Edward inhaled sharply. So he<em> hadn’t </em>killed him.</p>
<p>It had never made much sense to him why Oswald had brought him back from the dead. It was his greatest riddle since he’d awoken, joining the pile of questions Oswald had brought into this life from the moment fate had brought them together. Having him gone seemed more like a favorable turn of fate than otherwise, logically speaking. And yet he’d revived him anyway, even if he knew—because he<em>must’ve </em>known—that he’d be a nuisance, as he was being now. Sure enough, Oswald continued, stronger now, “and when you<em>did </em>die, I spent upwards of a<em>million dollars</em>trying to bring you back!”</p>
<p>In a sudden passion, and with a difficulty reflected in his flinching downward toward his knee, Oswald stood. “I don’t know why I even bothered trying to reach out to you! I knew this was<em> exactly </em>how the conversation would go!”</p>
<p>Now he was screaming like he was going to choke, but the man in green wasn’t pleased. “Oswald—”</p>
<p>“Leave, Edward!” He spat out the order like a commander. Edward recoiled at the sound of his full name coming from his lips. It sounded wrong. The would-be king, pained yet still standing, took a deep breath. On a level, though no less raging, tone, he elaborated. “Leave quietly and no one in this building will hurt you. Call this love, call this mercy, call this manipulation, whatever the<em> hell </em>you think it is. I don’t care. Just… just go.” Oswald directed his gaze downward—at his knee, clearly, though he pretended he was opening a cabinet.</p>
<p>“No. Wait—” </p>
<p>Oswald looked up with a frigid storm in his eyes. “You’re not done, Ed? Seriously, you’ve got to learn to be more succinct.”</p>
<p>Edward stood as well, towering over Oswald, and straightened his shoulders. He wanted him to be succinct? He’d be succinct. “Why?”</p>
<p>“Why<em> what </em>?” he asked, annoyed.</p>
<p>“Why are you letting me go, just like that?”</p>
<p>Oswald curled his lips into a scowl. It only failed to be menacing because he was so short and because he had spent the last several minutes arguing how much he’d loved him at one point in his life. “I feel like I’ve explained myself more than enough to you, Edward,” he said in that same flat, dangerously low tone.</p>
<p>Had he never been one to leave a riddle unanswered, the man dressed in green would’ve left. Anyone in his situation would’ve left. That, or been killed. “Just answer my question, Oswald,” he said, his tone surprisingly calm. He raised his hands up in surrender as he added, “answer it, and I’ll leave. Just like you asked.”</p>
<p>Oswald sighed and fell back into his chair. He groaned and clutched his knee. When he saw Edward’s brown eyes fixed on his hold, he let go of it. “My mother used to say that life only gave us one true love. To this day, I believe her.”</p>
<p>Edward blinked. He blinked again. He could’ve blinked a thousand times to see if, in any of those times, his shock lessened. “You’re implying,” he said cautiously, incredulously. He honestly couldn’t believe it. “That you<em> still </em>love me?”</p>
<p>A chuckle escaped the shorter man—much shorter, seeing as one was standing and the other had given in to the comfort of his seat. “A part of my heart always will, Ed,” he admitted. Edward, though he’d never be honest enough with himself to acknowledge it, felt his shoulders relax as soon as the nickname returned to Oswald’s lips. Though his voice was dangerously close to cracking, it was more bittersweet than anything. “I know that you’ll never reciprocate so I’ve moved on. It's just this throbbing emptiness in the back of my chest now, but it’ll always make me feel a kinship with you I share with nobody else.” After a moment, his whole demeanor—which had turned nearly kind—hardened again. “A<em> weakness </em>. So exploit it and get out before I change my mind and shoot you,” he ordered. His threats had lost their power, however, in Edward’s ears.</p>
<p>He sat down, once again nearly level with the man in front of him. With his heart drumming loudly in his ears, he whispered, “I’ve never been open about this with<em> anyone </em>.”</p>
<p>However much Edward refused to recognize Oswald’s empathy, he immediately softened and matched his tone when he asked, “about what?”</p>
<p>“I—I don't have a name for it. I have—” Edward started, but he couldn’t find a word to describe it. Even if he could’ve, he doubted he could’ve brought himself to say it. He tried again. “I have…” Nothing. “There’s….”</p>
<p>Oswald laid his worried gaze upon the man across the glass table, yet said nothing. He waited for him to figure out how to breach the subject. Finally, Edward asked, “have you ever felt alone?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” The answer was immediate.</p>
<p>“Do you remember when?”</p>
<p>There were plenty of instances that Oswald’s mind procured when prompted, but out of all his childhood and early adulthood, one stood out, its intensity so great it filled him with grief just to think about it. “When my mother was killed.”</p>
<p>Edward shook his head. “If I remember this correctly, you said there were people in the room. Think of a moment when you were miserable and terrified and<em>no one </em>was there,” he said, emphasizing with his hands.</p>
<p>“They weren’t<em> people </em>to me, Ed,” Oswald admitted within lungfuls of air to keep the tears at bay. “Tabitha and Galavan. They were<em>animals</em>.”</p>
<p>The man clad in green relented. He knew how deeply this event had scarred Oswald. It would suffice. “You felt alone, though?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and<em>heartbroken</em>.” Edward saw then how his frigid eyes shifted. They weren’t warmer, exactly, but misty with the fondness of nostalgia and the rage of regret. “She was the only person that ever loved me. And she never blamed me. Even though she knew she was in that position because of me, she<em> never </em>blamed me.”</p>
<p>Edward had heard those same words before, in the cloudless skies of Gotham’s past, of<em> their </em>past, when they counted the stars rather than the wrongs they’d committed against each other. He’d run out of replies to comfort Oswald. Just as well. They were past the point of comforting one another, anyway. So Edward resumed his tale. He tried his best to keep his voice level, but the quivering was painfully audible. “It was my tenth birthday. I was going to the bathroom when I… when I found my dad.”</p>
<p>“Where?”</p>
<p>“My room,” Edward answered. He appreciated the slight distraction. It made it easier to barrel through the remainder of the story. “And that’s when it started. There was glass on the floor—I don’t know what it was, maybe a beer bottle, maybe a mirror—and I saw my reflection. And it—it<em> scowled </em>at me.” Edward could see it in his mind’s eye, except he saw the broken window outside Oswald’s office, rather than the glass in his room. What he saw, either way, was desolate and grimy and grey. “The face in the glass was mine, but he wasn’t crying like I was. He was just...<em> angry </em>. And as the years went by, I —I stopped needing objects to see him. He wasn’t<em> just </em>a reflection any more .” He avoided Oswald’s gaze, because he knew he’d find confusion and judgment and pity — perhaps even horror — in it and he wouldn’t be able to finish untying the knot in his throat if he saw that. Even so, he felt he owed him an explanation, maybe an assurance, though whether it really was for Oswald or himself was a part he elected to ignore. “He’s not me, but he — he<em>kind of</em>is. He’s who I’ve always wanted to be. Ever since I saw my dad hanging from my ceiling fan, I guess I’ve just been waiting to do the same. He—the other me that rose out of that glass—is the version of myself that has the courage to hate my dad for what he did. He has the courage to refuse to follow his footsteps. I’ve always wanted that courage.”</p>
<p>When he finally looked up, Oswald’s face registered some shock, but the angles of his lips showed Edward compassion—sympathy, even. “You... You have schizophrenia?” he asked with a clinical tone. It almost made him laugh. There Oswald went, assigning names to everything. As if it was that easy.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. It’s never been diagnosed. I - I’ve just dealt with it.” He shrugged his shoulders as if he hadn’t just admitted he’d gone through a deeply traumatic event, untreated for over twenty years. “I’ve never been able to talk about it until now.”</p>
<p>Oswald, gently, placed a hand on top of Edward’s, and this time he didn’t recoil. He shifted his palm to face upward, and he rubbed Oswald’s pale skin with his thumb like he’d rubbed the watermark penguin. Oswald’s thin lips parted into a small smile that felt genuine. And his eyes, Edward noticed, were thunderous like the thick clouds outside the window frames, as they always were, but surprisingly warm.</p>
<p>“You wouldn’t believe it, something similar happened to my father with my grandfather,” he said, his tone seemingly casual, normal, although nothing about their conversation was, had, or would ever be. “My father was a sleepwalker. One night, he passed by my grandfather’s study, and he woke up when he heard a gunshot. He rushed in and found him bleeding out, with the gun still warm and smoking in his hand. The night he told me that story, he said that he never understood his father’s torment. Why he’d done it. But he felt that<em> I </em>did.” Oswald took a moment to inhale deeply again, as he’d done when he talked about his mother earlier. Edward let him, as Oswald had let him, and waited for him to resume. After a moment, he continued, “and he told me then, minutes before his murder, that I was loved, and I was not alone.”</p>
<p>His uncharacteristically warm irises found Edward’s brown. “I extend that same promise to you. I know that you don’t care, but I love you. And as long as I’m alive, wherever I may be, my door will always be open to you. You’ll never have to be alone.”</p>
<p>There was a gravity to those words neither was willing to acknowledge, so they sat in silence, hand in hand, waiting for the other to break the silence they’d fallen into.</p>
<p>Edward supposed that, since Oswald had begun the conversation, it was his turn to do the same. “You’re so quick to assume that I don’t care,” he whispered, his tone more wounded than he meant for it to sound.</p>
<p>Though he’d been so understanding earlier, the touchy subject was enough to harden Oswald again. “Because you<em> don’t </em>, Ed. You said it yourself—you don’t love me and you never will.”</p>
<p>“I—I did.” Edward faltered. He had. And he’d meant it. “But, I think I<em> could</em>.”</p>
<p>Oswald looked at him then with an indecipherable gaze. There was hope, and fear, and hurt. Edward hadn’t really understood his claim earlier, that he believed love was a human experience and not a political statement, but he did now. Oswald respected love—and that was why he was so hopeful now, and so scared. Edward had yet to learn to do the same. But he was willing to learn.</p>
<p>“I was wrong about you, Oswald. I’ll take the deal if it’s still on the table.”</p>
<p>The fear melted from his gaze and became an odd kind of anticipation. His were the eyes of a child on Christmas morning holding his gift. His were the eyes of a dreamer who had a star in his grasp. Edward found himself leaning forward, across the table, propping himself to sit on its glass surface as Lark had earlier. Oswald’s eyes lost their innocence as he approached. He looked at him as he’d tried to look at Lark. They didn’t need hands in knees to be intimate. His lips changed into a wicked grin. “Ah, Ed, there’s always just been one man I had in mind for the job,” he proclaimed.</p>
<p>“Of course you did.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Suicide Prevention Hotline:</strong> 1-800-273-8255.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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